


Problem

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joey becomes aware of Lance in a whole new light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Problem

**Author's Note:**

> For Em.

You don't remember when you first realized that it had become a problem.

You always watched out for him in the beginning, feeling a little sorry for the slender, pale, somewhat girly Mississippi kid whose voice seemed, back then, his sole redeeming quality. Not that you were a bastion of hotness yourself, back then: not with the hair flopping in your eyes and the puppyish grin you somehow thought was endearing, and the godawful hats you used to wear. But Lance seemed grateful that you defended him, and you enjoyed that.

He was a good kid, shy, retreating into his homework and family at every opportunity, and you'd cuff him on the shoulder, get him in headlocks, give him noogies and wet willies, and generally do your best to make him feel like part of the family.

It worked, too; your efforts, combined with JC's and -- occasionally -- Justin's and Chris's, helped all of you bond. So did nights on smelly buses in Europe, and fourteen-hour rehearsal days in shitty Orlando warehouses, and touring to the point of exhaustion. Lance grew, and grew on you too, evolving from a dorky kid with a bad haircut into a taller, stronger creature, savvy, wise, his eyes drinking in everything, absorbing, revealing nothing.

Except when he looked at you. You came to rely on those looks. They were comforting, familiar, once you got past the weirdness of being looked at by Lance the way girls looked at you.

You'd changed, too, gaining muscles and a goatee (Lou's idea, but you liked how it looked and kept it), breadth in the shoulders and a casual reliance in the way things were in the group -- how you'd been the star in high school, but now you weren't, and even if you'd thrown fits at first, you were mostly okay with it now. You'd cut your hair, thank God, and dyed it bright red one impulsive (drunken) evening. And while you enjoyed having your pick of girls everywhere you went, you came to covet that look in Lance's eyes. That unguarded gaze, the one that would crop up out of nowhere when he thought you weren't looking, full of need and longing and sometimes hungry desire.

He slept with girls sometimes, but without much enthusiasm, usually after being climbed on by them at a club or if Justin or Chris really pushed him into it. You'd figured him for gay a long time ago, so when, one night, he shoved Justin away and disappeared with a guy, you weren't even a little surprised. Justin was, though, and horrified too. Chris and JC just smirked.

Then Lance started sleeping with Chris, and suddenly the problem of which you'd been vaguely aware was thrown into sharp perspective.

* * *

"I thought they hated each other," you complained to JC, over the rhythmic noise of a headboard thumping into a wall, next door.

"Apparently not," JC grinned.

"But. They fight all the fucking time. I don't get it."

"Geez, Joe, jealous or something?" JC's voice was teasing, irritating. You eyed him suspiciously, then sighed.

"No, just. Worried about him. You know I -- I just don't want him to get hurt."

"I think he knows what he's doing," JC observed wryly, as a floor-shaking moan floated through the adjacent wall. The eroticism of the sound climbed into your ears, lodging somewhere in the back of your brain, and you knew you'd have to go jerk off if he moaned like that again.

"Yeah." Distractedly, that, as you couldn't concentrate on the conversation -- not any longer, not in that room. So you went off to see if Justin wanted to do something. At least you had one ally who couldn't stand the sounds of someone else fucking, either, if not quite for the same reason.

* * *

You started looking for girls. A lot of them. They were usually good, most capitulating easily, some actively aggressive. Justin went clubbing with you to practice his moves -- not that he really needed to, since one flicker of his eyes attracted almost anyone, male or female, his way. You remember a cute brunette in New York; a svelte redhead in Los Angeles; a petite girl with skin as black as midnight and eyes you could have drowned in, in Dallas. Sometimes they had names, sometimes they didn't.

Sometimes, as they left your room, you'd see Lance looking down the hall from the room he and Chris shared. But he never met your eyes, and he'd casually shut the door before you could approach him.

* * *

"Yeah, so I was holding down his wrists and you should have heard him," you overheard Chris say avidly to Justin one day on the bus. _When did Justin become interested in gay sex_ , you wondered. You idly smacked Chris on the back of the head as you walked past him to the kitchen.

"Ow! Fucker! What was that for?" Chris demanded.

"Nothing."

* * *

You stopped picking up girls at some point. At one club, you saw a slender young man with spiky brown hair and translucent eyes, lounging in a smoky corner. You were halfway across the club before you realized that it wasn't Lance. You stopped, dead, in the middle of the dance floor, feeling stupid.

Then you kept going, because the guy was looking at you with that same look that Lance always used to have in his eyes, and good Christ how you'd missed that look.

The guy blew you with mind-shattering efficiency in the bathroom. You were so turned on by the experience that you returned the favor, though you didn't swallow, taken aback both by the newness of it and the possibility of other risks. The guy laughed, told you his name was Jay, and you couldn't help but laugh too. He was even wearing a shirt that looked like one of Lance's. He told you that he'd like to do more, but you weren't ready for it, and you thanked him and left, needing to try and figure out what the hell you just did.

He caught up with you in the parking lot, told you you were a shitty cocksucker, and you ended up cut and bruised when you stumbled into the hotel a couple of hours later. No one questioned it, but Lance looked at you with concern, and you were tempted to tell him about the incident.

Hearing yourself recite it in your head: "Yeah, I saw this guy that looked like you, and I couldn't resist, he was fabulous at giving head," you snorted and went to take a shower.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, Chris and Lance broke up. It was quiet and amicable, because while Chris might have been a drama queen, Lance was anything but. They told everyone in a group meeting, saying only that it wasn't working and they'd rather put things aside for the sake of the group.

Lance glanced at you, but you looked at his hands and mumbled something about being sorry.

* * *

There were other guys, once in a while, but you saw what you were doing and gave up on that, too. It wasn't worth it, especially since you felt weird and dirty afterwards. It wasn't what you thought it would be like.

JC noticed that you weren't really going after anyone anymore and he asked you about it, but you shrugged off his concern. Justin offered to get you someone. You turned him down gently, not thinking he'd understand. He said something about "you can't wait for him forever" and walked off, and you wondered when he'd gained more perception than you'd given him credit for, or if you were just being incredibly obvious.

Not that you really cared, by now.

Chris didn't talk to you at all for a while, which was hard, because you were always close to him. You didn't have anything against him for being with Lance, except, of course, that he had been with Lance and you hadn't. Eventually Chris started coming around and tackling you, offering to let you try to beat him at videogames, doing things like normal, and you were relieved. Mostly. You never talked to him about Lance, though, except in a "is he ready yet? we're running late" kind of way.

You didn't want to know, you thought.

* * *

There was an interview shortly after that where you were all asked the usual questions about whether you were seeing anyone. Justin took up most of his time talking about Britney (you tried not to get mad, because the interviewer kept prolonging it by going on about the old rumors); JC mentioned the usual "in a relationship". Chris told everyone he was single and ready to mingle, and ran out into the studio audience to kiss someone's mom on the cheek.

When the interviewer asked you, you shrugged and said that you're alone right now, not really looking or anything. Lance put in, grinning,

"we're dating," and before you could protest, everyone laughed and the subject was changed.

You remember when you were on CNN and Larry King asked the same question, and how Chris said the same thing of him and Lance, and everyone except the five of you thought he was joking. You made a mental note to, when you had a free moment, ask Lance what the hell he was smoking.

* * *

The next free moment happened approximately three weeks later. There was a spate of shows, and interviews and publicity happened about every five minutes since you were also promoting the new single, and then there were appearances, and your mom joined the tour for part of the time, and Lance's mom showed up for a while too, and you started to wonder if it was all some gigantic universal conspiracy designed specifically to keep you from ever getting a word with Lance.

Because he was looking at you again.

The look wasn't exactly the same, because before it was innocent, if needy. Now, when he looked at you, you felt like the prey to his predator. You wondered when this happened, and what happened with him and Chris to make him go this next step into all-out sexual aggressor.

Even though you couldn't talk to him, you couldn't avoid him, either. He was so fucking hot that he seemed to exude waves of energy every time you brushed up against him, and he was in incredible shape, and half the time you couldn't even tear your eyes off him. You tried to see the features of the boy he was when he first joined the group, and all you could see now was a little bit of the curved cheek, still downy soft but rough with bristle at the jaw; and the eyes, older and wiser but still apple-green. The rest of the slender Mississippi kid had sunk within, softness giving way to the hard muscled lines of him.

You thought: you liked this Lance better, unknown qualities and all.

The most conversation you got with him during that three weeks was when you were changing between songs during a show in Miami, and he grinned up at you suddenly, catching you looking. "Checking out my ass, Fatone?" he asked, and snapped you with a towel.

You gave him a rakish smile. "What if I am?" you quipped, and threw on your denim vest and ran back after JC to get in place for the next song.

* * *

Finally, there was a break, if not a big one. Three days in between shows, in a big hotel in New Orleans, and if there was ever a time to party this was it. The morning you got there, everyone was already talking about they wanted to do -- see cemeteries and Anne Rice's house and Jackson Square and Bourbon Street, and lots of drinking and dancing. So what if it wasn't Mardi Gras: that was always just an excuse for a party anyway, you thought blithely, never having been to one.

But when you heard Lance mention that he was tired and didn't feel like going sightseeing, your stomach lurched at the realization. When Chris came around to drag you out, you complained of a stomachache and told him you wanted to lie down, because the motion of the bus had gotten to you. Chris gave you an exceedingly skeptical look, then rolled his eyes and told you to behave.

At first, you didn't even know what to do. You'd been thinking about the moment for weeks, maybe ever since the time you'd seen Chris and Lance making out, their hands in each others' pants, on the bus. Maybe even further back than that, maybe back when you saw him leave a club with a boy, their hands touching and not touching, and Justin's shocked stare. Now the moment was here, and you didn't have a speech rehearsed, anything.

You thought about grabbing a six-pack and heading down to his room, seeing if you could bring the conversation around to it. Sure, you thought, because you were confident you could work the phrase "I want to have sex with you" in there somewhere. While you were deliberating, someone knocked on your door.

You thought it might have been one of the bodyguards, so you were a bit surprised when you opened the door and saw Lance standing there. He'd stuffed his hands in his pockets, and his stance reminded you of the pale slender Mississippi kid.

"Hey," you said, and moved aside to let him in.

"So, uh," he said. Sat down on one of the beds, the one you hadn't tossed all your stuff on. "You feeling okay?" he asked.

Belatedly, you remembered the cover story. "Yeah," you said, "I took some Pepto. I was just gonna lay down and watch some movies. You want?"

He nodded, and -- casually, you thought, because you were cool and in control -- you laid down on the bed, next to where he was sitting, and grabbed the remote.

You thought it might get easier to talk if you just hung out and watched TV, but for some reason the air thickened, instead, as time passed. The temperature in the room seemed to climb when you looked at the back of Lance's neck, clean and tan above the neckline of the sleeveless t-shirt he was wearing. The long lines made you wonder how his skin would taste, and if he'd shiver if you licked him there, and you forgot all about the movie you were supposedly watching.

"...Jesus, what the fuck -- Joey, are you listening to me?"

Lance's voice cut into your thoughts, and you jumped, guilty and caught. "Uh, yeah," you said.

"Did you fall asleep?" he asked. "I can go if--"

"No, I'm awake," you said. You prayed that Lance wouldn't look down and see that he'd been having an effect on you, and you felt relieved and disappointed when he kept looking at your face.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

You nodded. "If you want to go," you started, and he shook his head.

"I'm cool."

 _No, you're hot_ , you wanted to say, but didn't, and wondered how much of the macho posturing you could stand before you just broke down and begged him to fuck you.

He turned toward you, one leg draped on the bed, an arm slung lazily across it, leaning back on his other hand. Fuckable. You gave a mental groan and wondered if it was possible to just dissolve into a puddle. "So you want to do something?" he asked. "We could go find the others, maybe."

You shook your head, keeping your face neutral through some superheroic act of will. "I, nah, this is cool. I could get a beer," you offered, and started to move up off the bed.

Before you'd made it into a sitting position, Lance had moved. You had no warning; he was just over you, like that, palms braced on either side of your shoulders, his breath skating over your lips. He smiled, and you saw the look, the lazy predatory look, and it took your breath away.

"I don't want a beer," he said.

You licked your lips. "Good, 'cause I don't have any."

He stayed like that, hovering over you, until you couldn't stand it anymore, and you reached up, putting your hands on his shoulders, cupped the back of his neck with one palm and pulled him down to you. His lips tasted a lot like you imagined, and it wasn't that different from kissing a girl, except Lance made the kiss his own with scrapes of his dancing tongue, jabs and licks into your mouth, and you swear he got you hard in about two seconds flat.

"This okay?" he murmurs against your throat, and you chuckle,

"Fuck yeah," amused that he'd think to question it now. Shades of old insecurity, maybe, but he smiled and licked you from collarbone to hollow behind ear, and you fell apart.

"Yeah, just like that," he said, basso croon tickling your neck. "You were lying, about being sick." You nodded, distracted, letting your hands roam his back, feeling the broad muscle, heated skin beneath a thin layer of cotton.

"Had to get you alone somehow, Bass," you murmured.

Deft fingers slicked into the waistband of your jeans, found your shirt's hem, yanked it up. "You could have said something earlier," he observed, grazing a nipple through your shirt, wet, suckling heat, and you arched up with a groan.

You could have sworn that you were about so say something, but whatever it was, it was gone after that. Instead, you tugged at his shirt. He pushed up, stripped it off, pressed down to you again, and oh, there was his cock, pushing against your own, hard in stiff denim.

"Fuck, Joe," Lance panted. "This is real, right?"

"I'm beginning to wonder myself," you said. He rocked into you and you hissed, hips pushing back. "God, no, I'm not gonna last two minutes."

He grinned down at you, eyes bright, hair disheveled, mouth wet. His tongue slipped out to lick at the corner of his mouth and _damn_ , that was incredibly fucking hot. You questioned your hope of lasting two minutes.

"All right," he says, "let's make them good," and you wanted to tell him no, he didn't have to, but his fingers were working your jeans open, and then his hand neatly moved into your boxers, onto your cock, and you lost the power of speech. Hot hand moving on you, Lance's hand, trapped inside your jeans, as he moved down the bed a little, and his eyes lascivious, fascinated, your stiff dick jumping, aching, drooling already with pre-come.

"It's okay, it'll be good," he said, and you wondered vaguely if you looked worried, and then just like that he sucked your cock into his mouth. Wet heat pressing tight around you, and you reached for him, got a hand in his silky hair and left it there.

It didn't last long; it couldn't, not in your fevered overwrought state, but Lance didn't seem to notice or mind when he settled over you and gulped down your come. You started to wonder if you really were having a fever-dream or something, and if the beautiful fey sprite hovering above you was just a figment of your heated imagination, and if so, you didn't want to get well again, because his lazy smile was obscene and gorgeous.

"Jesus, Lance," you murmured, and reached for him.

He got undressed, and you finished getting your own clothes off, feeling strange clothed when he wasn't. You hadn't really seen his body in, well, ever, but you could tell he'd developed a lot. When you pushed him back on the bed and pinned your forearms over his thighs, he made a soft sound of disbelief and then closed his eyes, and you grinned and began to apply what you'd learned.

Apparently you'd learned well. You acquited yourself pretty well, you thought, zealous and eager on him, using your hand and tongue in a lethal combination. He didn't last much longer than you did, and he sounded so fucking erotic when he came that you started to get turned on again. And the look in his eyes, so dazed and sweet, made you hug him fiercely, wanting to hold him close for as long as you could.

Later, when the two of you had curled up under the covers, you stroked his hair, enjoyed kissing him, and thought, rather smugly, about all the new problems that this particular solution had set off. And how you were looking forward to solving them all.


End file.
